


Saints and Martyrs

by kvikindi



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:39:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kvikindi/pseuds/kvikindi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prouvaire and Valjean. What it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saints and Martyrs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voksen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/gifts).



In the autumn of 1831, Jean Prouvaire grew restless. He felt a certain stirring in his blood. He would recognize it later as the first taste of cataclysm, the fore-current that animals feel before a storm has come, but then he only knew that he could not stay in rooms. A kind of electricity fizzed and jerked in his blood. So he went out walking, sometimes for hours, sometimes late in the day or late in the season, when it was quite cold and almost dark and shadows hung like moss on trees over the buildings of Paris. He went to the Luxembourg and saw frost on leaves. He went to the Champ de Mars and sat on the stone-cold earth there, and thought about the massacre that had occurred in 1791: troops firing into the crowd of republican protestors. One thought about it as watering the meadows with blood, but then one thought about the actual blood in the meadows— split skin and fractured skull-bones leaking the substance, splinters of bones jutting into the mud. He did not like to think about the human body. It was not fear, exactly, or even disgust, but more of a flinch at the thought of what was inside him. He had made an effort to conquer this fear:

"You’ll swoon," Combeferre had said, with skeptical eyebrows, "if I show you a body."

"I am not a lady. I will not swoon."

"I know you."

"I am friends with your skeleton already."

Combeferre had a skeleton. They called it Mademoiselle. 

"I don’t know why that should be different, but I know that to you it is different."

He was right, of course, as always; Combeferre with his unbearable rightness. Entering the anatomical theatre, Prouvaire had felt his throat tighten: as though there were something in the air, some sort of death-stuff. He was a person who believed in all sorts of haunting. It was not superstition; there was, he thought, a physical soul, perhaps comprising a form of air or electricity. (He had been very influenced by _Frankenstein_ and its Modern Prometheus.) When it came time for him to watch the skin peeled back, the careful pointing-out and lifting of veins, the incision of the muscles, as pink and as soft as any piece of butcher’s meat, his stomach quailed. He had to rush from the building, and vomit— humiliatingly— in the street, while Combeferre (with his unbearable kindness) held his arm and stroked his hair in a way that communicated absolution.

So he did not like to think about the bodies in the field. He preferred to think of them like flowers, with torn petals and leaves.

He was aware, throughout these troubled excursions, that other men in the city walked similarly. He saw them at times, like congenial ghosts. Sad-eyed, they nodded in passing. One in particular caught Prouvaire’s thoughts, for he had a face marked by suffering. Prouvaire imagined that he himself suffered, and yet he had spent enough time alongside true suffering to know that, like the Inferno, it has many layers. This man, it seemed to him, might have traversed them. And yet he was merely an old man in brown trousers, with a workman’s cap and bare sleeves. He might have been any stonemason or joiner. Why cut rocks if you had climbed the Inferno? Perhaps in the Republic, Prouvaire thought, we will learn to measure men’s souls according to their capacity, as we measure barrels or very deep holes. Then we may allot them well-suited tasks, tasks that require such a capacity. He did not know where this capacity was called for, what such a task might be, but he felt very strongly that there were some in the world.

He was often struck by fanciful thoughts such as these.

On the 26th of October— that is, the 4th of Brumaire, the Revolutionary day of beetroot, an item that Prouvaire had never cared for— he was sitting in silence by the root of a tree. He was contemplating the light as it fled into evening. He was thinking of beetroot, and had almost decided it was a detestable object. He was thinking this to avoid thinking of anything, but the image came to him unrejectably of a hard dark heart-shaped beetroot that had been cut open, and its long slow bleeding. He flinched,  and the man beside him said, “Have you not a coat?”

He had not known there was a man beside him. He looked at the man carefully. It was man from the lower layers of Hell. Prouvaire said, “I have, but I went out without it.”

"You must be very careful now," the man said gently. "Now more than ever."

"What do you mean by that?" Prouvaire asked.

"Only that we are coming on to winter. It gets very cold now, without the light. If you haven’t a coat, you’ll freeze. Why? What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing." Prouvaire twined his fingers down into the grass. He wished he could dig down to the roots, where the ground was still warm. "Nothing. I’ll be quite all right. Sorry."

The man stood, and shrugged his coat off. It was a heavy woolen matter, too large even for his broad shoulders. He held it out to Prouvaire.

"I cannot," Prouvaire said. "You would be down near to your shirtsleeves."

"Go on, take it. The cold and I are old friends."

Slowly Prouvaire took the coat and put it on. When he was warm, he knew how cold he had been. “But how shall I return it to you, monsieur?”

"You need not. It is all right. I have another."

"Oh, but I—" Prouvaire stopped. He was tongue-tied. He did not ever know how to say that he was rich; he felt it gave people quite the wrong impression of him. Further, it seemed in some ways like confessing a fault— not a crime, but a disability in him, some defect that could never quite be corrected, so that all of his life he would walk with a limp. "You mustn’t," he said weakly. "It is too much. I don’t require it."

The man shrugged. “Return it if you like. I shall see you here again, I am sure; you are a visitor of frequence.”

"Yes," Prouvaire allowed.

"As I am." The man said nothing more for a very long time. He merely sat on the earth beside Prouvaire, his cap in his hand. He gazed out at the dusk— which was not the right word, Prouvaire thought; "dusk" was for when it was warm again; dusk was the summer’s long violet caesura, a pause and sigh before night breathed in. There was no word for winter dusk. Night fell fast, and it had something final about it. Each night you thought fancifully, _This is the end_. 

Abruptly, the man said, “I find it peaceful.”

Startled, Prouvaire looked at him. 

"Growing things. Green. In the heart of the city."

"Not green for long." Prouvaire did not find it peaceful, but he thought that this would have been rude to’ve said.

"There are things that stay green." Another pause. "Man should not be away from them."

On this cryptic note, he stood to go. Prouvaire stood with him, unsure of the protocol. “Monsieur?”

"Fauchelevent is my name." 

"And I am Prouvaire, Jean Prouvaire."

Fauchelevent nodded curtly. He seemed to find this identification sufficient; he turned and stalked north, towards the river. Prouvaire gazed after him, somewhat mystified. He felt as though he had been part of some secret transaction. Possibly he had joined a Masonic lodge, or other arcane society. Anything was possible; and he rather liked the idea. It would explain a great deal about this man Fauchelevent.

He wrapped the coat around him. It was twice his size. There was something obscurely comforting about it. All the way home he kept his hand in its pockets. It was a shield, he thought, against all manner of evil. No harm would come, so long as it sheltered him.

* * *

The next day, whimsically, he brought his plant to the garden. He had only one plant— one that had survived, or one that continued surviving, persistently. It was a Stapelia gigantea, not currently in blossom. He had kept it alive now for seventeen weeks. It consisted of several long spiny green fingers. He supposed it would choose to bloom again, eventually. All the way to the Champ de Mars, he kept it carefully cradled, ignoring the odd looks that passers-by gave him. There was little sun in his rooms, and sun through a window was, he often thought, not quite the same, and everything needed sun, even the low sun of winter. He imagined he could see the spines on the plant perking up already.

Fauchelevent was seated on the same slope of grass where he had yesterday been. Prouvaire took a moment to silently observe him: his white hair, the roughness of his skin, as though he had spent a long time under a very bright sun.

Prouvaire set the plant down next to him. “Monsieur,” he said, “I am returning your coat.” He shrugged the coat off. (He had simply worn it as an extra garment, to the great amazement of several fishwives he had passed on his walk; though perhaps they had been responding to his gold velvet flat cap, or— now that he thought of it— the plant instead.)

"You are thoughtful," Fauchelevent replied.

"It is an excellent coat."

"I see that you have brought a companion." 

Prouvaire looked questioning.

Fauchelevent inclined his head towards the plant.

Prouvaire’s arm crept protectively around it. “It needed the sun,” he said. “And the air. And perhaps the companionship.”

"Do plants need companionship?"

"I don’t see why they oughtn’t. Man needs companionship."

"…Yes," Fauchelevent said, as though he had given this a good deal of thought. "That is true. There is no righteous man in the absence of companionship."

"Then perhaps there is no righteous plant. Perhaps we are raising, all of us, in all of our houses, a generation of floral outlaws, _flores sacri_ , lonely and evil lilies, orchids, violets.” Prouvaire quite fancied this idea. “Will they rebel against us, I wonder? Or slip off into the night, to do their evil other places. Floral evil.”

"You are a very remarkable young man," Fauchelevent said. 

"There are many who say so. I confess I do not see it. It is something to aspire to, perhaps. Only I think that I might die very soon, so I have lost all my art of aspiring at things."

He had not realized until he said this that it was true. A great wave of relief broke over him. Oh, he thought, so that is it. I don’t dream anymore; I don’t think of the future; I am afraid to. He was afraid of his friends also, or afraid for them, perhaps; he had a fear that they might die. He could not think beyond that. 

"You are very young to be so preoccupied."

"Am I, though? These days? I fear," Prouvaire said, "that to live very long is a failure. Only evil things survive in this world, I think."

Fauchelevent looked at him rather wryly.

Prouvaire blushed. “I beg your pardon.”

"Don’t. I am not so certain that you’re wrong. But surely—" He paused for a while, one of the slow, heavy pauses that punctuated much of his speech. "The world is evil, and habitable to evil. To live an evil life is very easy, and if it is this you do, then you are right to be afraid. But some good men survive, in spite of their struggle, and some who are not so good, but who strive towards the light. Perhaps you ought not think of death, in any moment. Do not cultivate yourself."

"Like a plant, you mean. Leave myself wild, like a plant.The way it warps towards the sun."

"Just so. Let your heart warp towards the light. Your life will be long or short, but it will be lived in bright places."

"Monsieur, that is very facile advice." To his surprise, Prouvaire found that he was crying. He did not feel sad, only as though a part of him had broken. "I’m not sure I want to die," he said, "though I know I ought not to mind it. I’d like to be a martyr, really, if only I didn’t have to die."

He felt a strong arm slip around him. He leaned into it, blindly, seeking warmth and seeking comfort. There was a smell to Fauchelevent that had been on the coat: something clean and wintry, a restful whitewood scent. Prouvaire breathed it in. He let Fauchelevent tuck his head under his chin, and felt the warm weight of his hands on his back, moving slowly, a soothing motion.

"I’m sorry," Prouvaire said, muffled. "You’re so kind. I’m sorry. Only I could see that you have such a soul, and I haven’t, or I think that I haven’t, and really I think I must learn how to be a stronger person, because shortly it is going to be needed of me." It seemed to him that he was not making much sense. He wanted to explain about the dead body he’d seen, and about being rich, and about how all his plants died, and the love he felt for the single one that had lived. But he could not seem to put it in words. He felt Fauchelevent press a kiss to his hair, a fond and grandfatherly sort of kiss, and he thought, No, please, I don’t want you to dismiss me. He raised his head and, very daring, pressed his own unfilial kiss to Fauchelevent’s lips. He knew he was attractive when he cried; other people had told him this. He tried to use it to his advantage now, tucking his hair behind his ears, letting his long eyelashes dip slowly, as though he were slightly sleepy-eyed.

Fauchelevent moved back, only a trifle, and very gently took his wrists. “You are confused,” he said. “You’re in a state of distress.”

"You make me feel unfrightened," Prouvaire said. It was perhaps one of the truest things he had said to a lover, to any lover that was or would be or might have been.

Fauchelevent shut his eyes. “Do not think I am not tempted. You are a very beautiful young man. But it would be wrong of me.”

"I am not a child. Perhaps I was childish once. But I had to put away all of my childish things." It came to him that perhaps this was the saddest thing of all, and he had to press his hand against his mouth to stop a noise of grief escaping. Fauchelevent was affected by this, he saw; a kind of hurt came into his eyes, and he looked away briefly. Prouvaire said, "Is that so wrong? We must all leave the garden, if we are to be good, if we are to be—"

He was cut off by Fauchelevent kissing him. It was a harder and a more savage kiss than the one Prouvaire had offered, and Prouvaire thought that perhaps its aim was to silence him. He allowed this; he let his mouth slip a trifle open, so that the kiss became hotter and wetter, and Fauchelevent could bite down on his lip.

Prouvaire let himself be pushed back down to the grass. The ground was cold, and he shivered, but there was pleasure in it. So long as he shivered, so long as he was breathing warmly into someone’s mouth, he was above the ground, he was a living man, and not just skin and meat. He was hard, and he welcomed that too, and Fauchelevent was hard against him, and Prouvaire let him do as he would, pressing, moving.

"Is this what it means to be wise?" Fauchelevent murmured against his neck. He sounded sad. Prouvaire arched his back at the feel of his lips. "Is this what it means to be good, to be old in the world?" 

His hands were tangled in Prouvaire’s hair, and they jerked, and Prouvaire gasped. “I don’t know,” he said, breathless. “I don’t know; how can I know?” 

They said nothing more. It was all cries and choked-off moans, and Prouvaire made a sound like a gulping sob when he came. He lay there with his eyes closed as Fauchelevent thrust against him, and felt the man stiffen, and knew that he had done the same; then Fauchelevent was touching gentle hands to his neck, to his jaw, to the vulnerable lines of his cheek and lips. “Look at me,” he said. His voice was soft.

Prouvaire opened his eyes. He felt a tear leak down his face. 

Fauchelevent traced the tear, with a look of unreadable wonder. “You are a very beautiful young man,” he said again. “You should not need strangers to prove that to you. No—” he said, as Prouvaire tried to flinch away, “I mean that there is goodness in you. You would not be beautiful, were this not the case. It is goodness that gives men and women beauty; any other kind is prettiness, easily thrown away.”

Prouvaire wanted to leave, and yet he wanted something more. He rested his head on the earth. “You do not think ill of me?”

"It is perhaps no great sin to want comfort," Fauchelevent said meditatively. He brushed Prouvaire’s hair back from his forehead with an expression of tenderness. 

Prouvaire exhaled deeply. He let himself lean into the touch. “Thank you.”

"It was not a gift."

"It was for me."

They lay there for a moment, in a distant, pleasant drowse, before the light grew dark and cold crept into the breeze. “I must go,” Prouvaire said, sitting up. He winced at the dampness of his trousers. “My friends will be waiting.” He searched around him for his hat.

Fauchelevent watched with a nearly-fond smile. It was a strange expression on his face; somehow it still managed to look like sadness. “Will you return, do you think?”

"I cannot say."

"You must keep the coat, if it brings you comfort."

Prouvaire touched the rough wool. “Oh, but it is yours, and I have— I do not struggle.”

Fauchelevent, in the act of arranging his clothes, paused to touch his shoulder. “You struggle quite enough, I think,” he said. “If you will not have it, give it to one who needs it.”

"Yes. All right."

Then there was leave-taking. Prouvaire, small in the coat, cradling his plant; Fauchelevent careful and serious. “I wish you well,” he said. “You and your flower. You must grow towards the sun. Remember that.”

"I will," Prouvaire said.

They embraced awkwardly.

* * *

Later, Prouvaire found himself near the Corinthe. He entered for the first time in more than two weeks, feeling raw and slightly overexposed. It was just as he’d left it, even Joly and Bossuet identically posed around a table. They made a great show of rubbing their eyes in disbelief—

"Joly!"

"Bossuet?"

"Can it be?"

"The prodigal son?"

"The missing chicken?"

"The wanderingest of all of our wandering geese?"

But they did not tease him very much, and they touched him more often, in passing, reassuringly. He thought sometimes they feared his sadness, and tried to corral him like country dogs with sheep, big and boisterous and bounding this way and that, proud of themselves and their clever deceit. He let himself be herded, and was surprised to find that he rather liked it. When he was drunk, well into the night, and he asked them, “Do you think about death sometimes?” they came tumbling out, all paws and ears and frolicking.

"Like we could avoid it, with your gloomy decorations!"

"Skulls and dragons and Spanish demons!"

"Though they are better than Combeferre’s."

"Those are medical!" That was Joly, full of indignation.

"I am sorry, my sparrow, but those are unholy. A hand, he had in there, a human hand—"

"Ah, now you object to anatomy!"

"I do not object to _your_ anatomy. Allow me to demonstrate my lack of objection…”

"I love you," Prouvaire said suddenly. "I just thought you ought to know. In case… in case anything happens."

A pause; a redirection. “Well, of course he loves _me._ ”

"Joly, he is not interested in your nubile form."

"I don’t know _what_ you can be implying.”

But they came and sat near him, and pressed their shoulders against him, and Joly slipped his hand in Prouvaire’s hand. Prouvaire felt his pulse beating there, fast and joyous, racing forth towards the next bright moment, and the next, and the next.

**Author's Note:**

> The blame for this is wholly attributable to voksen, who was like "Prouvaire/Valjean! Prouvaire/Valjean!" THAT WAS NOT EVEN A TAG ON AO3 DO YOU REALIZE.


End file.
